Fixing Foxes
by Graphospasm
Summary: House wasn't elated at the prospect of a hospital exchange program, but he wasn't one to back down from Cuddy's dare, either. His personal demons got the best of him. Some literal ones did, too. A House crossover in which Kurama's genetics are questioned.
1. Chapter 1: Arrival

Fixing Foxes

Chapter 01:

"Arrival"

* * *

It was all Cuddy's fault, of course. He knew that on a conscious level, the level on which he knew that puppies were cute and that Chase would be significantly less attractive without his Aussie-boy accent, but a deeper, hidden part of him knew that he had something to do with it, too. His reputation as the uncontrollable genius, his constant worrying of Cuddy's nerves, the way he inspired lawsuit after lawsuit with his so-called obsession with exposing marital affairs... It was no wonder Cuddy had been so quick to volunteer him for the hospital's stupid 'doctor exchange.' Getting him out of her hair for a month was a sure-fire way to restock the mental artillery in time for his return a month later, and as much as House resented being shipped off to Japan with only two day's notice, he knew that he was looking forward to battling a renewed Cuddy upon his return.

But House would never admit _that _to himself, either.

* * *

Sendai Hospital was a solid looking building, much like all the other Japanese buildings he had seen from the window of the taxi that had picked him up at the airport. White walls, a flat roof many stories above his head, frequent but small windows to let in light—yes, House decided, the hospital was as austerely Japanese as he had expected. It was a simple place, a straight rectangle not unlike an office building but definitely _not _like Princeton Plainesborough with all of its wings and side doors and marble tile. House hated it on sight. The architecture was not nearly interesting enough.

The doctor waiting for him at the hospital's ambulance port, however, he did like, at least at first. The man was tall for a Japanese guy, though he was not as tall as House, and he wore frameless glasses beneath his graying hair. Impeccable scrubs, shiny shoes, and a white lab coat ironed to perfection seemed to say _Please do not offend my Japanese sensibilities or else I will karate chop you into next Wednesday. _House made a mental note not to piss him off... at least until he figured out what color belt he was. House hit his limit at green.

"Welcome," the doctor said when House stepped out of the cab. "This is Sendai Hospital, and I am Doctor Momokura." He bowed from the waist. "I have been expecting you. It is an honor to meet you, Doctor House."

"Likewise. You speak English?" House asked, returning the bow. He wasn't too surprised, come to think of it. The doctor's voice was deep, pleasant, and touched by the small hesitation of an accent that made each word he spoke sound measured, calculated, and as dangerous as an asp coated in satin.

"Yes," said Momokura. "I have found the skill to be useful when negotiating with American pharmaceutical companies." His narrow black eyes betrayed little emotion, and with a sinking feeling House realized that this doctor would not be nearly as fun to tease as Cuddy. Insults would roll off Momokura like rain even as Momokura subtly fought back, and the man obviously had a backbone as unbendable as steel.

_This month is going to be boring,_

House thought, and as he paid the cabby he resolved to find someone—anyone—to lessen that feeling.

What was waiting for him at Sendai Hospital was not, however, what House had had in mind.

* * *

Momokura gave him a tour first, of course, and had one of the orderlies take House's suitcases off somewhere. House didn't like being separated from his things, or that the burly orderly was eyeing his luggage like it might be worth more than his hourly wage, but Momokura's intimidating eyes didn't allow House to complain. Not yet, at any rate.

The hospital was arranged by floor. On the first floor you had the ER and the ICU, which House thought was a weird place for them but Momokura, upon seeing the American's incredulous expression, explained that non-emergency patients parked in a garage behind the building and came in through a separate set of doors. From there they could take a staircase or elevator to the second floor which, Momokura said, housed the equivalent of Plainesborough's dreaded clinic. Above the clinic were four more floors: surgery, testing facilities, and the labs and the offices of different departments. The intensive care and long-term patients were on the top floor.

Momokura's office was on the bottom floor, right down among the hubbub of the ER. House could hear people barking orders through the office's thin walls. His bags had been set atop the large wooden desk that took up most of the tiny room's floor space, and Momokura bade him take a seat in the only threadbare chair other than the one behind the desk, which Momokura took himself.

"A relationship grounded in honesty can stretch as tall as the oldest oak," Momokura said as House got settled. The look in his eye promised nothing good despite his quotation of such a peaceful adage. "May I be bold?"

"Only if you don't mind me being a jerk," House said cheerfully. He spun his cane in one hand as he lounged in his cramped seat, one leg crossed over the other in defiance.

Momokura raised an eyebrow at House's impolite posture, the first display of emotion he'd shown all day.

"Oh, don't give me that look!" House said, feigning being hurt and shocked at once. "I'm fragile, you know. It's part of a cripple's skill-set."

"You have quite a reputation, House-san," Momokura deadpanned. He acted like he hadn't heard House speak. "In fact, it is such a reputation that is has reached even _my _ears, all the way across the sea."

"What can I say? People just love me."

"Not according to your reputation." Momokura inclined his head to just the right angle; his glasses caught the glare of the overhead lights, obscuring his eyes completely. "You are crass, and you do not respect authority. And in this hospital, there is no place for that. I will not allow you to bend rules. You will find that Japan is much more strict than your homeland. Tread carefully."

House showed his teeth, but no one could call the look a smile. "Like an elephant through a china shop—or is mixing Asians like mixing metaphors here? Sorry. My bad."

Momokura was less than amused, but he did not acknowledge House's insubordination and said: "I have a sickness I wish you to diagnose."

"Oh don't worry, that thing you don't have is called a personality."

Momokura went still, and House realized that he had said too much.

"I want you here," said Momokura, taking off his glasses, "because you are a brilliant man. But there are other brilliant men, many of whom have tried and failed to cure my patient. If you do not think you can help me and are acting this way in hopes you will be dismissed, then you may go. I will find someone else with the ability."

House paused, pride stinging.

Then: "What's wrong with your patient?"

* * *

House looked over Minamino Shiori's file with clenched teeth. Her symptoms—ones typical of a wasting illness—had not responded to any of the dozens of treatments she'd been subjected to. The charts sad she was clean of cancer, clean of viruses, clean of autoimmune disorders—

Still, though. She was, without a doubt, dying.

The worst part? House had no idea what was wrong with her. The pictures, the charts, the notes... all of them in broken English, all of them useless. He didn't even have a team to bounce ideas off of.

Against his better judgment, he decided to see his patient for himself.

* * *

_NOTE:_

_Yeah._

_I went there._

_There will be more. MUCH MORE._

_Takes place during Artifacts of Darkness arc. Sequel set during Sensui arc. OH THE HUMANITY._


	2. Chapter 2: You're Adopted, Right?

Fixing Foxes

Chapter 2:

"You're Adopted, Right?"

* * *

A pretty woman, but a thin one—that was Shiori-san. Her long black hair was soft, her brown eyes just as much so, and she was never hungry and responded to House's checkup with smiles, compliance, and weakness. Her room was the farthest from civilization, a corner room with only one window, and it looked lived in. There were flowers on every available surface, framed pictures on the walls, and seat covers with matching pillows.

House hated it. He hated it almost as much as he hated his cell of an apartment in the hospital's basement.

"Does this hurt?" he asked as Shiori lay back against her bed. He was pressing into her diaphragm with searching fingers, looking for sensitivity and soreness, when someone else walked into the supposedly private room.

"Obaa-san, watashi wa—eto, konnichiwa?"

Shiori's face lit up as she looked past House, staring brightly at the doorway, and House (counting on the Japanese intruder's supposed ignorance) said over his shoulder: "Get out, dammit—I'm working."

"Are you Mother's new doctor?" the voice said in perfect English, and House turned.

In the doorway stood a tall young person holding a riotous bundle of flowers. He wore a pink suit _thing _with a high collar that clashed horribly with his crayola-red hair and crayon-green eyes, and for a moment House was stunned into silence by the kid's sheer prettiness. That pale skin, the perfect flow of his features with those gigantic eyes and well shaped lips and high cheekbones, the silky hair that tumbled to the kid's waist in shining ripples... Only belatedly did House realize he was looking at an effeminate young man, not a pretty young woman with weird taste in clothing.

It was disgusting.

"Nice uniform," House snapped, and the kid stepped forward and put the flowers in a vase at Shiori's bedside.

"Thank you," the kid said, and he said something to Shiori in Japanese. House wasn't paying attention, though, so he didn't catch it.

He did, however, hear her response, which was: "Better, thank you."

"You need to eat something," the kid said, and he looked at House. His next words were in English: "May I—?"

"Get my patient food?" House said, finishing the Japanese sentence in English, and the kid's brow furrowed.

"You speak Japanese." It was not a question.

"Only under pain of death," House said, and he turned back to Shiori so he could continue his investigative probes. "If my patients figured it out they wouldn't stop asking questions, though I suppose it's too late to bash you over the head with a bedpan and hope for amnesia. Also, the answer is no. Would you tell her to raise her right hand if anything hurts?"

"Why not tell her yourself?" said the young man. He had dragged a chair over to Shiori's bedside and was rummaging around in his school bag, from which he took a green apple and a small knife.

"Pain of death, remember?" House said, and he dropped his hands from Shiori's midsection. "Just do it, dammit. And I said no food!"

"My name is Shuichi," said Shuichi, and he gave Shiori House's message as he began peeling the apple. "And my mother hasn't eaten all day. I don't think one measly apple is going to throw your whole diagnostic session into instant disarray."

House's hand shot out, aiming to grab the apple or the knife, but even with the element of surprise on his side he was unable to out-quick Shuichi, whose own hands flashed away faster than House could follow.

The reaction bothered House. Reflexes weren't supposed to be that fast.

"Give it to me," House said instead, holding out his hand. "I'm her doctor and what I say goes."

Shuichi raised an elegant eyebrow. "And her next of kin gets... nothing?" he said, and he gave Shiori—who had been glancing between him and House in confusion—a reassuring smile.

House snorted. "You're adopted. She probably doesn't even love you."

House's words—words meant to goad and to antagonize, but not very seriously—had an unexpected result: they made Shuichi freeze. The redhead's hands and eyes went still mid-apple-peel, and the reaction lasted only a beat before he regained his mobility. Still, House saw it, and he wondered at it.

"I," said Shuichi, eyes fixed on the apple in his hands, "am not adopted."

House scowled. "Of course you are. You called her 'mother' and you're not related, so you're adopted." He raised his eyebrows. "Unless you're a surrogate, but still—not related. Creepy, yes, but not related."

"What are you talking about?" Shiori asked in Japanese. Shuichi patted her shoulder.

"Just your medicinal history, Mother," he said.

"Wait, I get it, she hasn't told you that you're adopted and you figured it out already, so you're keeping it a secret," House went on. "Great! Now that that's settled, put down the damn apple and be quiet."

"I am _not_," Shuichi said, but with much more force this time, "_adopted_!"

House rolled his eyes. "You can tell yourself that all you want, but it doesn't change the fact that you have red hair and green eyes and a full-blooded Japanese woman for a mother, and for you to be biologically born to her with your coloring is a genetic impossibility no matter _who_ your father was." House threw up his hands in disgust. "God, has no one _ever_ picked up on that before? Are there no doctors in this country?" He paused. "Probably not. Why else would they need _me_ here?"

Shuichi—who had been looking more and more uncomfortable while House spoke—said: "I am her son and she is my mother, and in the end it should not matter whose—"

"See! Even _you_ admit that you're adopted!"

Green eyes flashed. "_I am not adopted_," Shuichi hissed, and House pulled his hands away from his investigation of Shiori's leg muscles. For a moment he had felt open, exposed, and—what was that?—_afraid_ of the young man with improbable eyes and hair. "And you will _not _say such things to my mother; is that understood?"

House didn't move or speak. He just stood there, hands at his sides with his cane hooked onto the hospital bed's railing. The buzz and beep of monitors hummed around him.

"You won't admit that you're adopted," House said at last, "but you _don't _deny that you're not genetically linked, either. And you don't want her hearing all of this, which means she doesn't even _suspect _any of this, but because you don't want _her _knowing means that _you_ _know _whatever it is she _doesn't _know about." His head tilted until he was looking at Shuichi out of one eye more than the other. "Convoluted logic, yes, but Occam's Razor says that if it looks adopted and denies that it's adopted, it probably is adopted."

He stared at Shuichi some more, but the boy did not crack under pressure. In fact, he remained remarkably cool as he cut a small slice of apple into a bite-sized piece and handed it to his mother.

"You're protecting her from becoming suspicious of you," House said when it became apparent Shuichi was not going to answer. "That's not normal mother-son behavior."

Shuichi swallowed as he made another cut. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, but his eyes shifted slightly to the left in the discomfort House fed on.

"Sure you do," House said in a thoroughly pleasant way. He even smiled a little. "The question is... how do _you_ know more about your birth than _your own_ _mother_?"

* * *

Wilson sounded groggy when he answered the phone. Only belatedly did House remember the time difference between Japan and America's east coast. _I'm brilliant even unaware_, he thought as Wilson muttered a grouchy 'hello,' and he smirked.

"Two people," House began as he settled down atop his meager bed. "A mother and a son. Mommy Dearest is Japanese and Sonny Boy is a total suck-up."

"House?" Wilson said in disbelief. "House? Is that you?"

"Sounds like a perfect setup," House went on. "Only, Sonny Boy is hiding something he doesn't want Mommy Dearest knowing about, and it isn't the pantyhose he's been trying on when no one's looking." He feigned absolute astonishment. "What could it _be_, I wonder?"

"You know, I was looking forward to some peace and quiet around here," Wilson said. "But no, _some_body had to give you a phone. And who's paying for this?"

"I dialed collect," House said. Wilson cursed. "So what could Sonny Boy be hiding? Any guesses? Guess correctly and you win a prize!"

"Is the prize the end of this phone call?"

"Nope. Guess again."

Wilson sighed and rolled over. Sheets crinkled into the phone's receiver. His voice sounded dejected. "He's a crossdresser?" he asked, resigned.

"I was kidding about the pantyhose," House said, "but he's pretty enough to pull off being a girl and his hair is longer than Cameron's, so you're probably right for once, and in honor of this momentous occasion—"

Wilson muttered something about being underappreciated—

—but House ignored him: "—henceforth his name shall be... 'Pretty Boy.'" House smirked. "I like that."

"House, I don't have time for—"

"He's a red-head," House interjected. "And I don't mean one of those soul-sucking ginger kids with freckles and hazel eyes, either. I mean he's a _red _head."

"What's the difference?"

"Ever seen a firetruck?"

Wilson paused. "His hair is _that _red?"

"And his eyes are like verdant forest pools," House soliloquized. "Seriously though, it's like someone dunked him in a Christmas card. I've never seen hair or eyes that vivid before in my life. It's impossible."

"And you think this weird pigmentation means he's hiding some nefarious world domination plot, or..."

"Nothing quite so dramatic, Wilson—calm down." House could image Wilson rolling his eyes. It was a nice picture. Casually, he remarked: "I called him out on being adopted."

Wilson was aghast. "You did _what_?"

"I told him he was adopted and that his parents didn't even love him," he said as Wilson sputtered in the background. "C'mon, his mom's as Japanese as they come and he's just _not_. Not even his _features _are Japanese. His eyes are the size of my fists. But get this, as soon as I said it he went all... weird."

"Oh really? Because if someone told me that I was adopted and that my parents don't even love me, I would be completely fine!"

House's joking mood vanished as he sat there, silent and serious for once. "He got _weird_, Wilson," he said slowly, and Wilson got serious, too.

"Weird how?"

"He froze. He went all still and quiet, and then he acted like nothing had happened. He kept saying that he wasn't adopted, but when I brought up his genetics and how it's pretty much impossible for him to be related to his 'mother'—" House made air quotes with his free hand "—he didn't try to talk me down or anything. He just kept saying 'I'm not adopted' until he was blue in the face."

"Seems he reacted pretty well to you," Wilson said. "Most people can't stay half that calm when you really set in on them."

"And then he told me that I wasn't allowed to say one more word about that in front of his mother—"

"You said all this in front of his _mother_?"

"We were talking in English," House snapped. "She's monolingual. Her son's accent is flawless, much like the rest of him. Except for the adoption thing. That wasn't flawless."

"Hair dye."

House went quiet.

"Hair dye and contact lenses. I'm sure he's normal under them. You said it yourself—his coloring is impossible." A pause. "And aren't _most_ Japanese kids into dressing up like cartoon characters?"

"Like _anime _characters, you uncultured hick. And it didn't look fake, Wilson," said House. "It doesn't seem _real_, but it doesn't seem _fake_, either. I can't explain it without sounding like an idiot, but you can tell when you see hair dye and his hair _isn't _dyed." He shook his head from side to side. "Not the point. He told me that I wasn't allowed to mention it in front of his mother again, which means he _knows _something's up, and since he wants to protect his mother from it—"

"—it means she _doesn't _know something's up," Wilson finished. "House, look, I know you like a good puzzle—"

"I haven't even brought up his mom's disease yet," House said.

"—but family matters are just that: _family _matters. You don't have any place poking into this kid's business."

"But—"

"No buts," Wilson said. "Leave the kid alone, House. Whether or not he's adopted, a surrogate, or some weird alien parasite is _his business_, not yours."

"But how does a kid know more about his own birth than his _mother_?" House said, desperate for Wilson's interest in the issue. "She was _there_ for it; she saw _everything_ and he was just a _baby_, and yet _he_ knows something _she doesn't_!"

"Ignorance is bliss, House," Wilson said simply. "And that's especially true for parents."

House started to reply, but Wilson cut him off.

"Let it go, House," Wilson said. "Let it go. Just focus on your work and forget about it." They were both silent until Wilson said: "Bye, House."

House did not reply. He just hung up.

* * *

_NOTES:_

_But House will NOT give up, Wilson. Giving up is anathema to his very nature!_

_This whole fic started with the thought: "Why the hell did no one ever bring up how un-Japanese/un-like his mom Kurama is in the anime?" But then again, in Japan people are notoriously polite and I doubt anyone would pry into family matters like House does..._

_Also, a spotted a plot hole that isn't a plot hole, but people might think is a plot hole, and it's this: "Why didn't Kurama just say he was adopted to get House to back off?" Simply, House is Shiori's doctor and, therefore, he has both her and her son's medical records. Kurama knew the adoption lie would fall through the minute House did any research... which he WILL DO, next chapter. =P_

_And I'm sorry to bring House's convoluted and confusing logic into this, but frankly, he wouldn't be House without it. House just loves a good puzzle..._

_BIG HONKIN' thanks to my reviewers! Dynasty Artemis, Montblanco, Masuyo Shun, Rokkugoh, and AkaMizu-chan!_


	3. Chapter 3: Testing

Fixing Foxes

Chapter 03:

"Testing"

* * *

Minamino Shiori-san—or, as House's insistently do-not-connect-with-patients side liked to call her, 'Mommy Dearest'—had all the signs of a wasting illness: fatigue, the inability to process food, hair loss, weight loss, deterioration of the senses, labored breathing, low t-cell count, an erratic pulse, decreased kidney and liver function—you name it, Mommy Dearest had it, and she had it in the spades. Her immunity to disease was so minimal that everyone who came into contact with her had to wash up for ten minutes before entering her room. She could only stomach plain rice and clear water, making feeding her via intravenous drip necessary, and she had become so sensitive to light that the blinds in her room remained permanently shut. Her genetic oddity of a son had to speak in whispers to keep her from crying of headache.

Some days were better than others, of course. A few days after House got there, she felt well enough to open the blinds and sit up; Shuichi peeled her another green apple, chatting with her about school and his club activities, but by the end of his visit Mommy Dearest was so tired that she slept for almost eighteen hours straight. Some of the nurses feared she had fallen into a coma, and when at last Shiori woke she was too tired to even see her beloved not-quite-related-somehow-but-still-her-own-son-somehow, Shuichi.

In House's not-so-humble opinion and despite his not-so-humble disdain for God, the fact that Mommy Dearest was still well enough to even _speak_ at this point was nothing short of a miracle.

* * *

House suspected cancer at first, possibly of the brain variety given the overall shittiness of the rest of her, and he ordered the tests necessary to find out if he was right. Doctor Momokura, however, just shook his head when House asked for permission to use the hospital's facilities, and the Japanese man told the American: "She does not have cancer."

"Maybe you missed it," House said. "You Japanese aren't known for your eyesight. Remember all those ships your fighter pilots ran into during World War II? I think it was on the news."

Momokura was not amused. "We have made multiple attempts to find tumors," he said, composure cracking just a bit when his mouth twitched in agitation. "We have not found _any_."

"Yes, but you don't see _my_ people running into things with _planes_, now do you?" House mocked. "My eagle eyes might surprise you."

The head of medicine paused, breathing deeply through his nose before saying: "You may run the tests."

House started to pay him a sarcastic thanks.

"But you will _not_ find anything."

House decided that leaving was the most prudent option at that point. He did not like the darkening look in Momokura's eye.

* * *

He waited to tell Mommy Dearest about the upcoming tests until her son was in attendance, since Pretty Boy could translate House's English and therefore alleviate the doctor of dealing with his patient directly. Predictably, it was Pretty Boy who asked: "My mother has already undergone those tests, House-sensei."

"What did you say, Shuichi-kun?" Mommy Dearest asked. Anxious eyes watched her son for clues.

Shuichi took her hand and held it in his lap, cradling her fingers within his like she was made of fine china. House noticed—though not for the first time—the network of upraised scars on the undersides of Mommy Dearest's forearms, peeking out as they were from the bell-sleeves of her hospital robe. The marks were years old, glaringly white against her copper flesh, and at first he had suspected they were self-inflicted, but the patterns were randomly sized and all the marks were the same age, perhaps suggesting an accident of some kind…?

"Would you mind repeating everything for her to hear, House-sensei?" Pretty Boy asked. "Your Japanese is flawless when you choose to use it."

House stared at him, totally unreceptive of Shuichi's smooth flattery. Shuichi stared back, eyes guileless and serene, suggesting that he hadn't meant to flatter the crotchety doctor at all. Eventually, however, the redhead sighed, turned to his mother, and began to formulate an arduous translation of House's complicated medical jargon.

"He is suggesting you undergo some tests you have already taken," the kid explained. He then went over each test by name, with his mother frowning at the mention of each one.

"But none of them bore results the _first_ time," she said when Pretty Boy finished. To House she posed the question: "I apologize for my impudence, but what would retaking the tests accomplish?"

House looked to Pretty Boy. "I don't trust your doctors," he said bluntly, a phrase which earned him an incredulous expression from Shuichi. "I want them done again."

"You mean, you want to do them yourself?" Shuichi asked.

House snorted. "No. _I_ don't deal with patients."

"You're dealing with one right now."

"Only because no one here speaks English well enough for a reliable translation, besides you." He rolled his eyes. "The education system in this country must really blow."

Shuichi's lips pursed, but then something in his eyes sparked with… amusement, was it? House didn't like the emotion no matter its true identity, and as he started to ask what the hell was up—

"House-sensei said that he wants to do the tests himself," the kid unflinchingly lied, smiling at Shiori in a perfect mockery of genuine happiness. House only knew the expression wasn't sincere because those green eyes were _laughing at him_, practically dancing in their sockets like leprechauns on crack.

Pretty Boy promptly dug the hole even deeper. "He believes that doing each test himself would help him connect with your case on a _personal level_," the kid said, patting his mother's arm in forced excitement. "He wants to be sure that he handles every aspect of your illness as more than a doctor, but also as a fellow human being!"

This, of course, was the opposite of House in almost every sense, and the words made House's eyes snap open to their widest. His fist clenched around his cane, knuckles going as white as Mommy Dearest's pinched face as blood fled from the outraged joints.

Shuichi shot a sidelong glance at the American, seeing his discomfort and growing fury with a smirk.

"Isn't that right, doctor?" he innocently asked, and then he smiled.

It was, by House's estimation, the smile of a shark: just enough teeth to be frightening, just enough _lack of teeth_ to not be overly aggressive and it was, therefore, more terrifying than any overdone display of ferocity could ever hope to be. The smile held a quiet menace, a calculated edge, a hidden intensity that made House wonder just what the hell kind of _child_ he had assumed Shuichi to be, because that smile was _not_ a smile any normal child should have been capable of.

_Speak to my mother in Japanese, _Shuichi's smile seemed to say_, or else face the consequences of ignoring her as _I_ dictate them to be. You have trusted me to translate for you, after all—_

The smile seemed to widen, as if Pretty Boy could sense House's unease… and feed off it.

—_but whoever said I was trustworthy?_

House's jaw could only drop. Shuichi's eyes continued to glimmer.

Shiori broke the spell, snapping House back to reality. "Oh, how kind of you!" she gasped, and Mommy Dearest had sat up despite her weakness, grabbed House's hand, and squeezed it with all the force of a weary butterfly.

"_Thank you_, House-sensei," she said, liquid eyes full of indebted tears. "To be so kind, it surely is a gift from God!"

"A gift indeed," said Pretty Boy, and his lips curled into another smile

House could hardly remember what was said after that—he only wanted to get away from Shuichi, who watched his every move the way a predator might watch its prey. It wasn't until House made it back to his cramped quarters in the hospital's basement, pride stinging as he recalled what he'd gotten himself into by underestimating what he had _assumed_ to be a normal child, that he remembered and replayed Shiori's words.

"To be so kind, it surely is a gift from god," Shiori had said.

"No," House muttered to himself, thinking all the while of Shuichi's killer's smile. "No, not from God. From the _devil_."

* * *

The tests, after House administered and interpreted them himself, came back clean, true to Momokura's word. House promptly shrugged the failure off and asked for a battery of auto-immune tests. It seemed, after all, like the next-most-likely-cause for a wasting illness, but once again the head doctor warned House that his attempts were futile.

"Autoimmune was our first guess," he explained, "but if you wish to test and see for yourself…"

"I do," said House.

"So be it."

* * *

Mommy Dearest, however, managed to defy House's logic yet again. She did not have an autoimmune disorder.

"It's gotta be neurological," House told Wilson over the phone after the tests came back. "No cancer, no autoimmune—I want to do a cranial biopsy, get some of her brain tissue under a microscope—"

"At least rule out viral and bacterial infections before you go cutting into her skull, House!" Wilson protested.

"She's not running a fever. It's not viral."

"Maybe her body doesn't _know_ it has a virus; no fever would present if it's bound in with her white blood cells or bone marrow." House could imagine Wilson waving his arms around, face screwed up in concentration mixed with his typical outrage. "Or _maybe_ her temperature runs lower than most people's and her having a normal one now means she's actually feverish. You've had cases like that before!"

And so House had.

"And try to remember that this is a woman with a _child_," Wilson said, sighing. "I doubt she'd agree to a complicated procedure like that biopsy, anyway."

The words—words about a _child_, a _child_ that had defied House's logic at every turn and who wasn't really a _child_ at all—gave House an idea.

A wonderful, horrible, _awful_ idea.

* * *

"What do you mean, I'm _not allowed_ to biopsy her brain?" House snapped.

Momokura carefully slid the paperwork—paperwork that would have been fully in order had he just signed on the damned dotted lines—to House over the smooth surface of his desk.

"We want you to cure her, not cripple her," Momokura deadpanned.

"But a biopsy is the only way I'll figure out if the problem is neurological!"

"Not while there are still _other_ avenues of possibility, it won't. You have only ruled out cancer and autoimmune disorders," Momokura said. He pushed his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose, sniffing in the process. "We did as much ourselves."

"Yeah, and you also ruled out viral, which means a neurological disor—"

Momokura's eyebrows shot up. "You trust our antibody panels?" he asked.

House went silent.

"How strange," the doctor mused. "You did not trust our cancer diagnosis, _or_ our autoimmune battery, to the point of redoing _all of the tests yourself_… " (at this point Momokura gave House a faux-puzzled smile) "… and yet here you are, ready to trust our antibody panels and skip over _all possibility_ of a viral infection."

He steepled his fingers, leaning back in his chair to regard House with masked amusement.

"My, my," he said. "Have we really earned your trust so quickly?"

House didn't like being played. He liked doing it to other people, sure, but to have the same trick pulled on _himself_ was—

He took a deep breath to steady his thoughts. In truth, he just wanted to skip right to the biopsy so he could put his wonderful, horrible, _awful_ idea into action, but Momokura did not need to know that, so…

"I'll look for viruses," House snapped (but he thought:_ Let him _think_ I'm cooperating). _The American stood up and started to storm out of the office, but at the last second he doubled back and snatched the rejected biopsy permission form off the desk.

"But I'll be back with _this_," he said, shaking the papers in Momokura's face, "when the panel comes back clean."

* * *

Momokura's rejection of the potentially-life-threatening biopsy threw a monkey wrench into House's Wilson-inspired plan, of course, because without the potentially-life-threatening biopsy there _was_ no Wilson-inspired plan. The entire thing hinged on the biopsy looming above Mommy Dearest and Pretty Boy's heads, because when people went under pressure, House knew that they revealed more about themselves than they could ever dream. The kid's infuriatingly unflappable demeanor would surely crack if things became too… stressing, as it were.

Too bad, then, that everything had gone to shit the moment Momokura refused to pick up a pen.

It was a pity, really. Even though Mommy Dearest's illness was fast becoming a puzzle worthy of keeping House's interests piqued, it wasn't enough (quite yet) to make up for being stuck in a foreign country against his will. Now if he could crack the case of the mother-son relationship, well, _that_ would be something worth remembering on a trip otherwise filled with the mundane. If only he could get permission for the biopsy, House was sure he could get the young redhead to lose his cool…

However, as House rode the elevator to the long-term patient floor to collect blood for the antibody panel, he realized something.

It wasn't like little details such as _hospital permission forms_ had ever stopped House's plans _before_…

As the elevators doors opened, House began to smile.

* * *

NOTES:

_Yay for Grinch references, irony, and fucking with peoples' heads! Don't worry, Kurama gets his turn to be rattled soon. ^^ House doesn't take crap like that lying down, after all._

_It's been far too long since I've worked on this! Sorry for the overlong delay, but plotbunnies started gnawing at my ankles and "Fixing Foxes" just got shoved to the outskirts of my imagination in the fray. Rhyme unintentional. Oi vey. I DID IT AGAIN OH GOD WHY—_

_(*ahem*)_

_ANYWAY, I'm no doctor and I have no idea how to write about diseases, so most of the technical terms are straight from House episodes, WebMD, and Wikipedia. Be gentle with me? _

_(*hides under a rock*)_

_I went back and edited the previous two chapters, cleaning up formatting along with some of the details that I hadn't realized I'd skimped on. Nothing MAJOR has been changed, but another read-through might prove interesting if nothing else. _

_Also, news: I have ideas for, like, five or six more chapters for this story. I thought it was going to be a three-shot, but now… BWA HA HA. Kurama is in for the ride of his life, as is our favorite American doctor. _

…_the new chapters might also include appearances of our favorite three-eyed midget… _

_(*gigglesnort, followed by blushing and a quick change of subject*)_

_The response to this story has been STAGGERINGLY AWESOME. Seriously. Those first two chapters weren't very good and you still treated me so nicely that I wanted to just SCREAM, but in a good way. THANK YOU, READERS! You rock my crossover-ish world! Foxgirl Ray, Saiyuri-dahlia, Rokkugoh, AssassinedAngel, Masuyo Shun, Xanaldie, dumbrat, SparklyTea, rain chant, Montblanco, Wings of Silver Rain, Naitza-Kururugi, oceanabyss, Out-Of-Control-Authoress, Dreamehz, Katt Jeane, Reclun, Blackrose Kitsune, Empirical-Pursuit, 9shadowcat9, Twi-Red-Ruxi, cranberryben, Thunderstorn101, phoenixfirekitsune, OhhTaylorJade, AlyssHeart77, TrisakAminawn, Isabella of the Night, foxy nine-tails, booklover9, j.d.y., BiGayStraightWhoCares, JadeOokami, Fantasy's Reflection, HerexForxYourxEntertainment, Raging Lulu, Reality Bores Me, -individuality-has-a-name-me-, 0nfateswings, TeresaShiho, Gartabro, Hino-chan, Black Rose of Twilight, spiritfoxxx821, TenTen-Kunai, A lilmatchgirl, TheBeingofEverything, Candy Apple, bookwyrm31!_


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